


From Dragonlords to Phoenixes

by NaTak



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Albion, Angst, BAMF Merlin, Canon Compliant, Dragons, Family, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Lots of musings and deep thinking, Magic Revealed, Magical Creatures, Minor Character Death, Multi, Phoenixes, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Pregnancy, Returning magic to the land, Slow paced (seriously), Unicorns, Wyverns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaTak/pseuds/NaTak
Summary: As much as Merlin feels he is done with destiny, it seems that destiny is not done with him. Arthur is dead and Merlin's world is falling apart. However, his duty to Albion is not complete, so he must forge on. Almost despite himself, the young warlock embarks on a journey that will redefine his notion of both magic and purpose.(A Merlin/HP crossover that is mostly Merlin, with a sprinkle of HP later on).





	1. From Avalon to Camelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to all! (but specially to Merlin fans ^_^)  
> This is the beginning of what might turn out to be a respectable series of Merlin/HP crossovers. *crosses fingers*  
> I feel like we only got a taste of how powerful and BAMF Merlin can be in the series, so I'd like to capitalize on that.  
> I must warn you, though! This might be ~~a little (oh, who am I kidding?)~~ _a lot_ slow paced.
> 
> Huge thanks to [Amlia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amlia/pseuds/Amlia), my lovely beta. Without her this fic would not be.  
> All remaining mistakes are hers. (Haha). No.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy!

He does not know how long he stood there, watching the boat carrying the body of his king grow small in the distance, until it disappears from sight completely. Must have been hours.

He does not know how long he stood there, gazing unseeing upon the tranquil lake waters. It darkens and it brightens. Must have been days.

In the back of his mind, Merlin takes notice of these small details. How his body feels untiring, even if it’s been days since he last rested. How his head is clear and his muscles strong, even if it’s just as long since he last ate or drank.

He is pretty sure he forgot to breathe a few times, too.

He can feel the magic sustaining him, keeping him alive of its own volition. It’s not like he is doing it consciously. It’s not like he feels like living anymore.

It's like he is stuck in of his own time spells. Those scattered, uncontrollable bits of magic that often escaped him in his early years. Except, this time, he is the one frozen in time and space, while the rest of the world moves around him.

Ominously, Kilgharrah’s parting words echo in his head.

They are not a comfort.

Merlin has lived a life dictated by destiny. A life full of heartache and disappointment and failure. But no matter how much he feels he’s done with destiny, it seems destiny is not done with him.

As he stands facing the lake of Avalon, the resting place of his dearest friend, Merlin remembers a decisive meeting, in the busy streets of Camelot, almost 10 years past. A frightened young voice resonated inside his head. _Emrys_ , it called him.

Emrys.

He never did get an explanation for what that name means, Merlin thinks, taking a deep breath, possibly the first in hours. The cold night air burns in his lungs, but he can honestly say it makes no difference to his body.

He’s not simply Merlin, after all. He’s Emrys. He’s magic itself.

Emrys.

In the cave, when he rediscovered his magic, he had thought he’d finally understand what his Druid name meant. Magic, that’s what I am, he’d thought.

Now, though, he is beginning to realize that magic is only what enables him to be who and what he is. And that is, unavoidably, Emrys.

Immortal.

And though the Druids might have called him Emrys from the beginning, Emrys is not something he is and always was, it’s rather something he became. Or something that became of him.

He’s brought out of his turbulent thoughts by a soft whining noise coming from the trees behind him. The warlock lets the magic he'd drawn up go, and feels time start moving forwards with him once again.

Slowly, he glances over his shoulder – the most drastic movement he’s done in days – to find his and Arthur’s horses looking back at him. They appear unhurt, it a bit ruffled.

Merlin’s mare, a docile old thing, steps forward and stops a few inches from his face, as if saying, are you coming or not?

He seriously contemplates turning away and spending the rest of his days inmobly staring at the lake – maybe the grass will grow over his feet, and birds will nest on top of his head, and if he’s lucky it will rain so much the lake will overflow and drow him – but in the end decides against it. Arthur does not deserve such a depressing sight upon his resting place.

* * *

After a day’s journey, Camelot can finally be seen in the horizon. The sun is about to set, and the view would have been breathtaking if it weren’t for the black flags raised on top of each tower of the castle. The city is in mourning.

So they know already. Merlin wonders how, but the thought is brief. After who knew how many days with no news on the whereabouts of the king, it’s a reasonable assumption he is not coming back.

Still, Merlin feels something cold and bitter cut him from the inside as he realizes they didn’t even wait for his arrival for confirmation. They had little faith he would be able to save Arthur.

The feeling worsens as he admits to himself that they were right. He failed. And now he has to face the knights and Gaius and Gwen—

His heart stutters as he thinks of her, and he cannot believe this is the first time he considers that Arthur’s death affects not he alone. That Arthur was his friend, but he was also Gwen’s husband and partner, the knights’ leader and true companion, the people’s hero and savior. Arthur is not only his to grief, and it was selfish of him to ever act like he was.

But even as he decides his friends deserve to know how Arthur died and what part Merlin himself played in all of this, still he lingers behind the tree line, just out of sight to any guards patrolling the city walls.

Despite all his power, he feels weak. Despite the magic sustaining him, he feels impossibly tired.

If only he could hide in his room in Gaius’ chambers, lie in his bed and rest for a few hours before having to face the world…

With a start, Merlin realizes that he can. It’s simple, obvious, really.

He sets his horse free, nudging her along with Arthur’s stallion with a thought to run toward the city and not stop until reaching the castle stables. Then, Merlin closes his eyes and imagines hearing the rustling and clincking of Gaius working on his medicines and tinctures, he imagines smelling the mixture of old books and mold of his wardrobe, he imagines feeling the rough but warm texture of his bedcover.

* * *

As he sits on his bed in his post-dusk darkened room – the half-opened door to the physician’s chamber being the major source of light – Merlin marvels at his latest display of impressive, effortless magic. Gone were the days he had to spend hours trying to master a spell.

Merlin distractedly turns his attention to himself, more worried with listening for signs that Gaius is outside. He realizes he is filthy with battle, travel and mourning. Usually, he would fill a lukewarm water basin and scrub off the worse of the dirt. It’s an unpleasant, time consuming task. Now though, he knows he only has to will it to be as clean and refreshed as he wants.

He blinks, and wonders how would it be to never move a muscle or open his mouth again, to simply let magic deal with mundane things such as life in his stead. Once, Merlin would have remembered Gaius’ words about the true purpose to magic and hesitated. Now his eyes flash gold and he smells of soap.

Merlin hears the sound of the outer door opening and closing. It’s Gaius, and he is alone. Merlin can always kind of tell these sorts of things. His magic has always worked as an extra sense that allows him to get a feel of people. Normally, he shies away from these sensations and tries to ignore these intuitions, afraid of letting on he knows things he is not supposed to. Now, he embraces the sense, and dives deep into it, reaching out and absorbing as much information as he can.

The first thing that jumps to his attention is Gaius’s magic. The magical signature is something that always draws Merlin, be it either from people, animals, objects or places. But he had never realized how much he could learn from a magical signature simply by reaching out with his own magic.

Merlin does that now. He lets a tendril of his magic travel through the wall, across the room to the old physician. He lets it circle him, envelop him. He senses his teacher’s moderate magical powers, his honeyed if rusty capabilities.

Then, Merlin focuses on Gaius’ body, on his strong if old heart, his thinned bones, his congested lungs – cold? -, his empty stomach – forgot to eat supper?

Lastly, Merlin reaches for his mind. He brushes against it, softly. Worry, grief, pain, fear flash in a convoluted mess and Merlin gasps loudly.

On the other side of the door, Gaius lets something slip from his hands and it smashes on the floor. He’d heard him.

Merlin stands up, horrified with himself, horrified that he had dared invade Gaius’ mind like that. What’s wrong with him? What is he doing? He is not like this. Is he?

But he has no time to ponder this question, for Gaius is throwing the door open the rest of the way and staring up at him, surprise clear in his lined face.

“Merlin!” He exclaims, sounding relieved. “You’re home.”

Gaius steps into the door as if to throw his arms around Merlin and hug him, but something in the young man’s expression stops him.

“Merlin?” His tone is tentative now. “My dear boy, you’ve been gone for weeks. What happened?”

But Merlin can’t find it in himself to answer. He barely knows it himself. So he just stands there, drinking into Gaius’s features and magic and life, pulsing right in front of him. He focuses on that, and is impossibly glad for it.

Gaius, blessed him, might not know what’s happening, but he knows what to do.

He reaches forward purposefully, as he might to grab for an ingredient in one of his coconutions, and wraps his arms around Merlin, pulling him tight against his chest.

Merlin, for his part, only curls into the hug and lets himself be grounded by it, while expanding his magic around Gaius’ and hugging him as he cannot with his arms. It might be only Merlin’s impression, but he thinks Gaius notices it, because his grip on Merlin’s back momentarily thightens.

Be what Emrys may be, to Gaius he is still Merlin.

* * *

The first few weeks, Merlin doesn’t speak.

It’s not that he doesn’t have anything to say, or that he doesn’t want to talk to his friends. It’s just that try as he might he can’t seem to be able to find words to retell what happened.

When Merlin tries to rehearse in his head how he might approach Gwen about her husband, he always ends up thinking about a young, naive yet fearful boy, full of power, and lacking desperately in purpose. He has flashes of dragons and prophecies and murderous children. He feels dread and powerlessness. Merlin remembers his last days with Arthur, and is overcome by such love and regret he is amazed his chest doesn’t burst out with the vicious strength of his feelings.

There are very few words that can describe exactly what Arthur meant to Merlin. _Everything_ is one of them.

There are no words that can make justice to how destroyed Merlin is by his loss. He tries them all: hopeless, bereft, raw, purposeless…

But all the words in the English language can’t possibly comport the enormity of the significance of Arthur’s death as it is: before Arthur, Merlin had no objective to achieve, no dream to follow, no wish to fulfill. Before Arthur, Merlin had no reason to live. And from the beginning, Merlin knew how things would end. He knew, and all his actions ensured that those predictions came true. Merlin fulfilled all the prophecies, just as he tried to prevent them.

So, although Merlin doesn’t protest when Gaius informs the queen that he is back, the warlock doesn’t show up when summoned. Although he doesn’t hide in his room all day, he quietly (magically) slips away when someone he knows approaches as he is completing his tasks around the castle (either acting as Gaius’ helping hand or performing chores recently assigned to him by the royal steward). He makes himself not quite invisible, more like unnoticeable when he crosses paths with people looking for him. And he unscrupulously blinks himself away when Gwen or Gaius try to corner him in his room.

During his solitary wanderings, Merlin discovers more of what happened after Camlann. He hears talk about new treaties being set in motion with the other kingdoms. He hears reports about the Saxons retreat. He hears accounts of the day the queen declared she knew there was no longer any point in waiting and was proclaimed ruler. He hears the reports on the battle toll.

When Merlin learns of Gwaine’s cruel death, he spends one whole day sitting on the ramparts of the tallest tower in Camelot, fantasizing about slipping forward in his clumsiness.

In the end, what causes him to emerge from his self imposed isolation, is the presence of something foreign and unknown emmanating, strangely enough, from Queen Guinevere herself.

* * *

It is late morning, and Merlin is apparently busy with scrubbing the floors of the antechamber that leads to the council room. In truth, the floors have been clean for a while now, and he is actually listening in to the debate happening on the other side of the guarded closed doors. Usually, the thick wooden structures are enough to prevent any sound from escaping the confines of the private meeting, but Merlin had, with a flash of his eyes, made sure that his hearing reached the round table.

When Arthur was King, Merlin had, as his manservant, almost unrestricted access to important meetings and councils, which, although often boring, provided crucial information on mysterious, possibly magical incidents that Merlin liked to keep an eye out for, in case the royal prat needed any saving – as was usually the case – or in case there was any magical creature or sorcerer that could use his help.

With Arthur gone, and Merlin dutifully – and possibly mutinously too – avoiding the queen, Sir Leon and Sir Percival – the only two remaining knights of the original round table –, he has no way of participating in the council.

So he has no choice but to crawl through the floors and pretend to be slow and useless, while secretly using his illegal abilities to try and save everyone – a fair summary of his whole life in the city, now that he stops to consider it.

Merlin does it after habit, really. Because, what is the point of keeping his cover as a lowly servant? What is the point of listening into these meetings? What is the point of protecting Camelot? What is the point of staying in Camelot even, with Arthur gone? He refuses to answer Gaius’ questions, he avoids Gwen like the plague, he ignores anyone who talks to him outside matters of his chores. Merlin could as well go back to Ealdor live with his mother, or leave to travel the world. He could make new friends, start afresh somewhere far away. He should get used to goodbyes – being immortal means he will outlive every person he knew, and every person he will ever come to know.

And it is in that moment of Merlin’s bleak musings that the council chambers’ doors are thrown open and people start filling out, distracting him, at least for now.

" _Bemīþ mec_ ," he mutters hastily under his breath.

Men and women, young and old, rich and poor walk past him. Gwen made a point of summoning people from all backgrounds to form her council, a popular decision among the common folk, and a controversial one among the upper classes.

Lastly, emerges the queen, accompanied by her faithful knights, Sir Leon and Sir percival. They are in a deep discussion – which Merlin has been half-heartedly following from a distance – about recruiting new knights and foot soldiers, and slide past him without glancing his way, as Merlin ensured they would.

But as they leave the antechamber, a flicker of something catches Merlin’s attention. He focuses his magical awareness around, feeling out his surroundings, and realizes that a second, small but pulsing, life-force seems to be coming from Gwen.

Merlin hesitates for a moment, before following the queen to the corridors that lead to her private chambers – she hasn’t been able to go back to the room she shared with her husband.

Casting his magic ahead of him, he tentatively reaches out to Gwen, fully expecting the violent backlash of some evil influence – she had been under Morgana’s control for weeks a few months previous after all – and is thoroughly surprised to find a warm, benign presence instead.

Bewildered, Merlin approaches the queen, just as she is bidding the knights goodbye. They walk on and turn a corridor, still in a heated discussion, disappearing from sight.

" _Bemelde þín dierne_."

Casting his power a bit more intensely, the warlock tries to get a better feeling of the presence coming from Gwen. He looks for some object that stores a curse, like Morgana’s old bracelet, or for some magical spell or even the effects of a magical parasite, but finds none. He wonders if there is any kind of sickness known to provoke such strange effects.

So distracted Merlin is with this possibility, he only just realizes the queen hasn’t entered her quarters, and is instead squinting towards him, as if trying to see through fog or at a great distance.

“Who is there?” Gwen demands, voice strong and steady. “Show yourself!”

Startled, the warlock checks to see if he’s dropped his illusionment spell by accident. But the magic holds strong. This is not his doing, it’s Gwen’s. _How_ she is doing this, though, is mystery to the warlock.

The queen’s expression changes from defiant to uncertain.

“Merlin…? Is that you?”

She takes a tentative step forwards, then, more confidently, another, and another, until she’s standing right in front of him, looking into his eyes. And although Merlin has not let his hold of the magic go, he knows Gwen sees right through it, as if it wasn’t there.

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, face unreadable.

His first night back, Gaius told Merlin he was certain the queen had at least a measure of idea of the role Merlin played in winning the battle of Camlann.

‘It seems’, the old physician reported, ‘that Gwen appears to accept the idea that magic had an important part in insuring Camelot’s victory and that magic was Arthur’s last hope of recovering.’ Merlin hadn’t had the heart to ask Gaius about how Gwen had reacted to discovering that her old friend had been a sorcerer and a liar all along.

He wishes he had, for now the almighty Emrys can’t stand to meet a young grieving queen’s eyes, fearing the reaction he will find there.

The sharp slap to the face, if unavoidably startling, is in truth quite expected. The engulfing hug that follows, though, catches Merlin completely off guard and has him murmuring the first, strangled, sentence he has said in almost two months.

“It’s all my fault, Gwen.” The words pour out of him, as if her hug had bursted a bubble that held them all. “I’m so sorry. You all trusted me and I failed. And now he is dead because of me. I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks as he hugs her back fiercely, eyes closing to try to hold back tears.

The queen doesn’t reply, doesn’t contradict him, just holds him tightly. It’s both terrible and wonderful.

* * *

After Gwen has guided Merlin into her chambers, warning the servants who arrived bringing her lunch that they were not to be disturbed, the queen sits on one of the armchairs in front of the unlit fireplace and gestures for the young man to do the same.

Quietly, his first friend in Camelot asks Merlin to tell her everything. He doesn’t even consider denying her.

Halfway through his tale, Merlin realizes Gwen is crying silently, brown eyes fixed on him.

Startled, he realizes he is crying with her.

Hours go by. The queen starts asking questions, demanding clarifications, confirming facts. Merlin is forced to go back and forth in his story. He realizes it’s easier to talk when there is a question to prompt him, Gwen helps him focus on small parts of the whole, preventing him from becoming overwhelmed as he feared he would.

“I… I don’t know what to say, Merlin.” Gwen whispers in the end. At that moment she is not the confident queen she became, but the shy servant girl she had been a decade ago, on the day they first met.

“It’s hard to reconcile with the fact that you are… you, but you are also a sorcerer.” Twisting her hands on her lap, she avoids his gaze.

“I’ve always thought of magic as something dangerous, corruptive, evil,” she admits. “But I can never believe you to be dangerous, or corrupt, or evil. So I guess...” Her eyes fly back to his. “That means not all magic is evil, if you have magic too.”

Merlin smiles a little at that.

“I used to think as magic as a sword,” the warlock tells her. Their tears have dried, and Merlin feels it’s easier to draw breath than it has been for weeks. “A tool that is not inherently good nor evil, but which can be use to do good and evil depending on who is wielding it.”

Gwen nods. “I… can see the analogy,” she says with uncertainty. She pauses for the longest moment.

“Merlin, you are my oldest friend,” Gwen begins, suddenly standing up and turning around to face the windows. “I understand why you would hesitate to tell me or-or Arthur,” her voice breaks a little on the name, but she forges on, “about your magic when Uther was King. But after he died… after Arthur was crowned King…”

She stops, before slowly turning back to him, face hard.

“I can forgive the lies and deceit. What is hard to forgive is your lack of trust in us. In me.”

Merlin stands up too, head bowed.

“I understand, Gwen,” he replies calmly.

“What is hard to forgive,” she continues as if she hasn’t heard him, “is that it took you three weeks, _three weeks_ , to come back after he died. Three weeks in which I felt it in my bones that he was gone, but still, even after the ceremony… even knowing I shouldn’t, I hoped.” There are tears back in her eyes again, though this time she refuses to let them fall. “What is hard to forgive is that you put him to rest without me.” The queen pauses and breathes deeply. “What breaks my heart is how you avoided me for six weeks. Ignored my requests to see you. Fled the room when I arrived – don’t you think I didn’t notice it.”

Merlin thought there was no heart left in him to hurt, after Arthur. He was wrong.

“I’m so sorry, Gwen,” he says helplessly, knowing this will never be enough.

How could he tell her he didn’t notice it had been three weeks? How could he tell her he hadn’t felt capable of talking to her – or anyone for that matter? How could he tell her he was so weak? So weak, where she was so strong. Strong enough not to despair, but to take control of the situation and do what must be done.

For all his power, for all his magic, Merlin always lacks in strength. Strength of will, strength of character, those are Arthur and Gwen’s virtues, not his.

She seems to read all this and more in his expression, for she sags a little, moving over to rest her weight against her work desk.

“For what it’s worth,” she tells him, “I’m sorry too.”

At his inquisitorial look, she elaborates.

“I’m sorry for all the prejudice and persecution you had- you have to face. I’m sorry you had to live in fear and hide who you were from everyone. I’m sorry you had to stay in the shadows and have others take credit for you actions.”

“That’s not why I do it,” Merlin interrupts quickly, another conversation coming back to him. “I don’t do it for recognition. I do it because I believe- believed in Arthur, and in the world he would build.”

“And what world is that?”

The queen poses the question mildly, but Merlin senses that his response will carry great weight, so he takes his time in answering it.

“In that world,” he begins carefully, taking his turn to walk to the windows and gaze outside, “there is unity and peace among the lands. The people prosper, both the nobility and the common folk. We are all treated as equals. We all work together, helping however we can to grow food, and build houses, and protect the land, and heal people, and save lives.”

Turning to face Gwen, Merlin’s expression is serious, intense.

“In that world,” he continues, “we are not judged by our birth, or what we can or cannot do, but on our choices and our actions.”

The queen smiles at that, approaching to take Merlin’s hands in hers.

“Merlin, I’m not Arthur,” she states, “I’ll never be as good as a ruler as he was.”

The warlock attempts to contradict her, but she shushes him with a look.

“No, listen. It is the truth,” she continues. “I’ll never manage to lead the arm or inspire the people like he did.” Gwen smiles, apparently completely at peace with the notion. “But I want to help to build the world that he envisioned. I want to do it better, even.”

Merlin trembles with emotion, barely letting himself hope that he understood right the underlying meaning of her words.

“But Merlin,” she says sternly, “I can’t do it without you.”

Letting the seriousness drop a little, Gwen smiles, with a hint of her old playfulness.

“If Arthur couldn’t do it without you, secretly lending a helping hand every step of the way, how could I?”

Merlin half shrugs.

“He would have found a way,” he replies.

“Maybe,” Gwen says unconvinced. “Maybe not. The fact is that the peace and safety we have now was secured with your help.”

She looks thoughtfully at the courtyard below them. At the people rushing about with their days. He follows her gaze.

“The work is not done, though.” Gwen’s tone is meaningful.

Merlin doesn’t answer at once. He is busy watching a mother scold her young daughter. He wonders what she had done to anger her mother as such. The graying woman is purple in the face with rage.

Maybe the girl dropped the fruit basket she was supposed to be holding, maybe she had a nasty fight with her little brother, maybe she didn’t want to wash her hair.

But maybe the girl had magic and had done something with it, to her mother absolute terror.

How many times had Hunith beaten Merlin when he was young and had done magic where anyone could have seen it? How many times had Merlin seen the fear badly masked by outward anger in his mother face?

How many parents still worried sick over their children when they manifested uncontrollable magical abilities? How many young sorcerers and sorceresses feared for their lives daily, for simply being who they were?

If still one person did, it was one too many.

“No. It’s not,” he agrees, at last.

The queen smiles.

* * *

When Gaius arrives back to the physician’s chambers, after his afternoon rounds, Merlin is sitting on the dinner table, waiting for him with supper ready.

“It’s stew,” the warlock says simply. “You should eat it while it’s still warm.”

Nonplussed, Gaius sets his things aside and pulls a bench opposite to Merlin’s.

“I’m really sorry, Gaius,” it’s how Merlin begins.

Night has long fallen before the young man stops speaking. Merlin tells his teacher everything, from Arthur’s last moments, to the dragon’s ominous words, to his recent discoveries about his magical abilities.

The only thing he doesn’t mention is his realization about what being Emrys means.

When he finishes, Gaius is astonished.

“You say you are able to-to transport yourself from one place to another with no spell or incantation? And to camouflage for hours to end effortlessly?” His eyebrows are far into his hairline.

At Merlin’s shy nod, Gaius sighs.

“You, my dear boy, have always been an impossibility,” he says. “I always knew to expect great things of you.”

The young warlock turns away.

“I can do all sorts of impossible things,” he mumbles, “but I fail at the one thing that truly matters.”

Gaius reaches forwards and places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Even you, with all your magic,” he says as gently as he can, “are not infallible, Merlin.” When the young man looks back at him, the physician smiles kindly. “And even Arthur, the ‘Once and Future King’”, he quotes, “was not immortal. One day, either at Camlann, or 20 years in the future, by a sword or by a disease or by old age, he would die. Just as we all will.”

At that, Merlin feels an abrupt urge to throw up, and he can’t bare to face Gaius’ wrinkled expression. He stands up and walks around the room, restless.

“Merlin?” The old man inquired worriedly.

Grasping for anything to change to subject, Merlin says the first thing that springs to mind.

“Earlier today,” he stops his pacing to look at Gaius, “I felt something hiding inside Gwen or around her. It pulsed with a life-force of its own.”

At the physician’s alarmed expression, Merlin is quick to reassure him.

“No, no. Nothing like that. It wasn’t… evil. It was…” He searches for the right words. “Organical?” He tries, before shaking his head. “No, no. More like… something alive, something warm and growing. Gaius,” Merlin stares at his teacher, horrified, “it wasn’t on her, or possessing her. It was coming from inside her body. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

At Gaius’ surprised gasp, Merlin shares his hypothesis.

“Do you think it’s possible that Gwen has developed some sort of deadly sickness?”

“Deadly–what?” He trips on the words. “No! Of course not. Honestly, Merlin,” his tone is impatient, “you may be the most powerful sorcerer to ever live, but you are still an idiot.”

At Gaius’ familiar exasperation, Merlin can’t help but let out a small chuckle. Which soon grows into a true laugh, as the physician joins him.

“Alright then,” the warlock demands when their giggles subside. “What am I missing?”

“The impression you just described,” Gaius replies, with the tone he usually takes when talking about his remedies, or magical creatures, or sicknesses, “reminds me of how Alice used to describe a particular _female_ condition.”

At Merlin’s blank expression he elaborates. “It appears that the queen is with child.”

Merlin is rendered speechless.

“What?” He asks, expression blank. “Gwen is- but how?”

At Gaius’ nonplussed raised eyebrow, the warlock amends, “I mean, I know how. But. It’s been what? Two months since-since. Even if they _had_ \- I mean. Right before the battle.” He struggles with the uncomfortable concepts, to Gaius’ great amusement. “How can’t Gwen not know by now?” He inquires.

“Maybe with losing her husband and her new responsibilities,” the physician hypothesizes, “she hasn’t taken notice of the symptoms yet,” even as he says this, his expression is doubtful. “But,” he continues, “what I believe is most likely is that she knows, but has chosen not to disclose the information for now.”

Merlin gapes at him.

“But not even to the court physician? Why?”

Gaius shrugs. “We would have to ask her.”

The warlock nods along, thoughts flying.

Merlin can clearly see it. A small child with eyes as kind as Gwen’s and with a smile as broad as Arthur’s. A child who would inherit their parents hopes and dreams. A child who would one day rule Camelot.

* * *

That night, Merlin lies awake on his bed staring at the ceiling for hours.

After so many weeks barely speaking a word, the conversations he had that day felt absolutely draining, and left his throat burning.

He pays it no mind, though, too absorbed in Gwen and Gaius’ words.

If the queen is indeed expecting, she and the unborn heir will need protecting. Not only during the pregnancy, but also after the birth. Arthur’s old enemies will not hesitate to plot against a child of his.

Merlin will have a purpose again.

At such thoughts, Merlin shakes his head viciously. He shouldn’t dare hope things like that.

Gwen might not be pregnant, Merlin might not be allowed to remain in Camelot, should the laws not change, Gwen might not want her son or daughter associating with him.

If the laws do change, though, Merlin can’t help but wonder, he will need to find a way to interfere more effectively, more openly. Hiding in the shadows, making tree branches fall and giving discreet nudges in the right direction won’t cut it anymore.

As his eyelids start to drop, vague plans consolidate in his mind. He thinks he might even have some fun, as strange as the concept of having fun in a world without Arthur in it is.

That night, there are a few less shadows in Merlin’s dreams.

* * *

When they talk to her about their suspicions, Gwen initially seems more bothered by Merlin’s intrusiveness than by the way he used his magical – and still largely illegal – abilities.

Merlin feels extremely optimistic at this reaction, and can’t help but beam at the queen, even as she is shouting at him about boundaries.

“And you… knew this,” Gwen asks Merlin, “how exactly?”

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, Merlin searches for words.

“It’s hard to explain,” he stutters out, “sometimes magic can’t really be put into words.” At her unimpressed expression, Merlin rushes to say, “I can definitely try, though.” He lets out a breath. “I felt... something different coming from you yesterday after the council meeting. I haven’t always been as good at it as I am now, but after-after what happened at the Crystal Cave,” he trusts Gwen to remember the name from their previous conversation, “certain kinds of magic seem to come more easily now. I felt something in you, something _alive._ At first I feared it was something dark, dangerous, like the Fomorroh, but soon I realized it was not. It was good.” He finishes awkwardly. After years of avoiding talking about magic with incriminating familiarity, it is mind-boggling to speak so freely to Gwen. Merlin finds he has to repress his instinct to talk hypothetically and distance himself from the conversation.

The queen takes a long time to consider his words. Tenderly, she places her hand against her stomach. Her head is low and her tone quiet when she speaks again.

“Just before you came back,” Gwen tells Merlin, “I noticed my time wasn’t coming. At first, I thought it was the shock of losing Arthur, but when one week later the other symptoms appeared, I knew.” Gwen looks up at them. “I felt impossibly happy when I realized I was carrying Arthur’s child,” she confesses tearful. “We had been trying for years, unsuccessfully. But I was also incredibly sad to think that he died without ever knowing that he would be a father,” a tear escapes her eyes at that, and she expertly brushes it away. Merlin’s heart breaks a little.

“I couldn’t bare to announce it at court,” she explains. “I would be expected to behave a certain way, feel a certain way. And I-I couldn’t yet. I had to keep this with myself for a little while longer. Do you understand?”

And Merlin does. Completely. So he leans down and hugs her.

“You are not alone, Gwen,” he whispers against her hair. “Not anymore. We are in this together.”

She lets herself lean against him.

“Merlin,” she calls after they have parted, “that world you envisioned?”

He nods once.

“I want this child to be born in that world,” she says determinedly.

* * *

The following weeks are bustling with preparations and plans. Merlin, Gwen and, more often than not, Gaius meet daily to talk strategies. At some point, the queen insists that Sir Leon joins their small council, and soon the tiny table in Gaius’ workroom feels overcrowded.

“He was Arthur’s most trusted knight,” she said a fortnight after the decisive conversation in the physician’s chambers, “Leon deserves to _know_ , Merlin. And besides,” Gwen continued as Merlin opened his mouth to say something, “if we are doing this, we will need his help.”

Still, Merlin remained reticent. Leon had been Camelot’s knight ever since Uther ruled, and the old king’s beliefs had always seemed well-rooted in him. The warlock doubted Leon’s reaction would be a good one, if told he had been made a fool for years.

The decision was taken out of Merlin’s hands, however, when a few days later, Leon caught him red-handedly performing magic. And in the queen’s presence, no less.

Merlin was in Gwen’s private chambers, an occurrence which was becoming increasingly more frequent, as the two friends who had largely distanced themselves when Gwen’s social status changed, and between whom the recent revelations created strains that hadn’t been there before, worked to develop mutual trust and renew the affection they had always felt to one another. If their relationship still wasn’t the easy camaradage they’d had before, it was slowly moving towards something similar. Merlin knew, though, that it would never be like it was before, not after Arthur and all the other losses they faced, not to mention the years of deceit in Merlin’s part and Gwen’s new position and responsibilities.

Still, they had taken to having supper together, using the time alone to talk freely, reminisce Arthur and generally take a break from all the seriousness of their usual conversations. At the queen’s request, the warlock had begun showing her small, harmless forms of magic, and teaching her about the Old Religion. So that she would be able to rule a kingdom that did not treat all magic the same, but that saw the nuances of it.

Soon, it became clear to both Merlin and Gwen how challenging that would be.

“I mean,” Merlin was saying, “look at elemental magic.”

At that, he raised his hand towards the lit fireplace, as if reaching for it – even though it was several feet away – before bringing it back, palm turned up, bright flames sitting on it, in a harmless but unmistakable show of magic.

It was proof that Gwen was becoming accustomed to it that, even though she was inches away from Merlin’s outstretched hand, her only reaction was to raise an eyebrow, as if asking if the showing-off was really necessary.

“A frightened child may accidentally cause a fire using their untrained magic,” the warlock elaborated. “But an ill-intentioned sorcerer can provoke a fire on purpose and later claim that it was an accident.” He looked expectantly at the queen. “In Uther’s reign, both verdicts would be clear: they used magic, so they were guilt. But now-”

“Yes, I see your point, Merlin,” Gwen interrupted. “However, I’m sure we will-”

And it was in that precise moment that Sir Leon, unannounced, walked in, looking troubled.

“I apologize for the interruption, Your Majesty, but I must speak to you.”

He stopped short at the scene he found. Face betraying the utmost surprise and horror, his gaze narrowed in the flames in Merlin’s hand. The warlock, taken completely off guard, stood frozen in place.

Suddenly, Leon’s expression morphed into one of fear and rage.

“Sorcerer!” He exclaimed – disgust clear in his voice – throwing out his sword and pointing it threateningly at Merlin. “Step away from the queen or I will cut you through where you stand!”

His words seemed to snap Merlin out of his shock and he hastily let the magic go and jumped away from Gwen.

“How could you?” Leon was shouting heatedly, moving forwards and shoving his sword right in the warlock’s face.

“He trusted you more than anyone!” The knight raged on. “He would have died for you, and now you dishonor his memory like this! Threatening his queen with sorcery! How dare you!” And then, to Merlin’s absolute horror, Leon’s eyes started brimming with unshed tears.

The shock of witnessing the usually fierce and steady knight show such unbidden emotion robbed Merlin of any words he might have used to defend himself. It was Gwen who had to step in to interfere and save the warlock from being stabbed right then.

The tense conversation that followed had been – well – _unpleasant_ was how Merlin later described it to Gaius, trying not to let on how close Leon had truly being from throttling him for bewitching and manipulating the queen. But it all worked out in the end. Mostly.

Even after almost two months, Leon avoids at all costs exchanging more than the most perfunctory words with the warlock. Sometimes Merlin still catches the knight staring at him as if he is an evil puzzle – waiting to be smashed, rather than solved

The warlock is therefore mildly surprised when his reluctant ally directly addresses him halfway through that evening’s meeting.

“Merlin,” he says quite suddenly.

They are discussing the most crucial aspects of _the plan,_ as Merlin has taken to call it in his head. _The plan_ has the ultimate goal of reestablishing magic to the land, while maintaining peace with the other kingdoms. It is divided into smaller steps, objectives easier to reach.

First, Gwen is to announce she is expecting Arthur’s child and heir. Hopefully, such news will consolidate her position in the court, among noble men and women, who although had respected Arthur and his choice to marry a commonborn woman still had misgivings about the future of the kingdom in the hands of a young, grieving, childless widow.

Then, a few weeks later, she will reveal to the public – in an event whose size the four of them are still debating (with Merlin, Gaius and Leon favoring a smaller thing, less prone to attacks or the unpredictable, and Gwen advocating something big, for all the citizens of Camelot) – the role magic had in their last victory against the Saxons, hopefully, opening the way to the idea that magic may not be all evil, and that Uther’s stance had been extreme, to the detriment of everyone in the kingdom, not only sorcerers.

Meanwhile, Merlin will be roaming the kingdom, using his magic to help people throughout the lands, hopefully contributing to change people’s views towards magic. At the same time, he will look for sorcerers and sorceresses in need of aid and parents of children manifesting magic potenting, offering guidance when necessary.

They are discussing how exactly Merlin is supposed to help these people without jeopardizing their safety and his own when Leon interrupts.

At once, the warlock’s gaze snaps to the knight’s and their eyes meet across the table.

“This plan of yours,” he begins, apparently steeling himself for what he is about to say, “will never work, unless you steer the minds not only of the common folk in the small communities across our territory, but also of the people living in the city of Camelot itself, in particular, the noblemen and women.”

“The common people in the country make up the majority of our population,” the queen argues.

Sir Leon respectfully inclines his head towards her. “That is true, my Lady, however,” he continues, “the highborn families in the city have much influence and are very well-connected politically to be able to sway the public opinion regarding a matter so- _controversial_ as the lift of the ban on magic.”

Looking now in Merlin and Gaius’ direction, the knight’s expression is calm and sure. “You need to have a trustworthy magic user in close contact with the court, showing them what advantages they might gain by supporting this new, risky pro-magic stance.”

Merlin feels extremely uncomfortable with the prospect of having to navigate the complicated noble politics, but Gaius and Gwen do not seem at all fazed by what Leon is proposing.

“Sir Leon raises a most relevant concern indeed, Merlin,” says the old physician with a thoughtful look on his face. “When Uther started the Purge, he made a point to convince most noble houses of his views on magic, and their support was crucial to provide the men, resources and intelligence that made his endeavor possible.”

He fixes his ward with a stern look. “Say what you will of Uther, but he was a brilliant strategist.”

 _A_ murderous _brilliant strategist_ , Merlin doesn’t say.

“And besides,” Gwen places a comforting hand on top of his, distracting him from bitter thoughts, “you said it yourself, Merlin.” She smiles at him. “From now on, you are not hiding in the shadows anymore.”

Merlin grimaces at that.

“Yes, I know,” the warlock mumbles. “I realize I’ll have to take a more open role. However,” the words come quickly paced, half-rehearsed, so many times he has gone over it the last few weeks, “I still think I can do more good out there, in the villages and settlements. I'm no politician," he states without preamble, "if I try to persuade the court through their power struggles and clever word play I will butcher any chances we have. What I say, I say with actions, I'll say through helping the common folk. To what use is a law approved by noblemen and women, if the people do not believe in its fairness?"

"The law is what separates us from savagery," mutters Sir Leon under his breath.

Gaius’ only reaction is to raise his eyebrows.

Gwen furrows her brow. “What are you saying, Merlin?”

"I'm saying that it will fall to you," he says, indicating the queen, "and you," he gestures to Gaius, "to change the minds of the people, here in the heart of Camelot." The warlock pauses briefly, choosing his words. "Gwen, you have already proven yourself to be a resourceful leader, if there is anyone able to sway the council, it is you." The queen acknowledges this with an assertive nod. "Gaius, you have treated these people their entire lives, they trust you implicitly. Not only that, you are also the most knowledgeable person I know in matters of magical lore. If anyone can advocate for its benign uses, it is you." The physician looks somewhat disconcerted, but does not argue.

Leon remains unconvinced. "Say her majesty and Gaius do manage to turn the court's favor toward magic," he poses leerily, "how do you propose to travel through these communities without alerting them to your presence? Surely you are aware that news of a boy," Merlin bristles, but the knight ignores him, "using magic will spread like wildfire. And surely you cannot expect a warming welcome in the villages you reach. You must remember that until we manage to formally lift the ban on magic, its practice is still considered illegal, and if your face is recognized and you are caught, there will be little we can do for you."

The knight appears satisfied with his arguments, while Gwen and Gaius look worried, Merlin, though, grins at them, a little of his old mischievousness leaking through his smile. “It is fortunate then, that mine is not the only face I can wear,” he says mysteriously.

Gwen and Leon’s faces remain blank, but the physician blanches noticeably.

“Merlin,” the old man’s tone is warningly. “You talk about difficult, unpredictable magic. Even with all your power…” He doesn’t continue.

“What are you two talking about?” The queen demands.

Gaius is opening his mouth to reply, but his ward doesn’t wait for him.

The warlock’s eyes flash bright gold. Leon startles so badly he just manages to keep his seat. No one notices this, though, for they are all staring at the white haired, long bearded, old man sitting in Merlin’s place.

“Pleasure to – ahem – formally make your acquaintance, my Lady, my Lord,” croaks the old warlock.

Gaius is shaking his head disapprovingly, while Leon is squinting in faint recognition, and Gwen just looks bewildered.

“Merlin…?” She asks hesitantly.

The old man bows half-mockingly.

“It’s Emrys, actually,”

* * *

If Merlin thought he was done with difficult, uncomfortable – if necessary – conversations, he was clearly mistaken.

One afternoon, Leon is training the knights and asks Merlin to fill in for the servant who usually runs about fetching extra swords and bringing water to the men. Just when they are about to start, the First Knight realizes he's forgotten his sword back in the armory and sends the warlock to retrieve it.

As he steps inside the blessedly cool armory, a low voices calls from the corner.

"Hello, Merlin."

The warlock startles so badly he almost trips to the floor. Magic at the ready, he turns to face–

"P-Percival."

The knight smiles grimly. "I couldn't get Leon to tell me what's going on with you," he says, "but I did manage to guilt him into helping me corner you."

Merlin silently curses at the bearded knight, absolutely certain that Leon is doing this to get back at him for the incident with 'Dragoon, the Great'.

"You've been avoiding me," Percival states, not unkindly. The warlock sputters words of denial, but the knight ignores them. "What I'd like to know is–" His words break by the end. "Do you avoid me because you blame me for Gwaine's death," he asks softly, eyes downcast, "or because you fear my reaction to the fact that you have magic?"

At that, Merlin is at a complete loss for words.

"You knew?" He manages to gasp. "How long? Did Lancelot–?"

Percival interrupts him with a definite shake of his head. "After the battle of Camlann, after we witnessed how that old sorcerer saved us, Gwaine and I, we– talked." The strong man breathes deeply and looks right into Merlin's eyes. "We came to the conclusion that the only thing that made sense was that you were the sorcerer."

Merlin gapes at him. "And you were…alright with this?" He asks, trying hard for nonchalant and failing.

"It is as Gwaine said," Percival replies, "magic or no magic, you are our friend, and nothing can change that."

Incredibly relieved, the warlock sags on a nearby bench. To discover that Gwaine had _known_ in the end, and not cared, not hated him, and that Percival accepted him as well lifted a weight off his shoulders that Merlin had not realized to be there. But as his rushing heart calms, something the knight had said comes back to him.

"Why would I blame you for Gwaine's death?" The warlock asks, bewildered at the notion. "It was Morgana who tortured and killed him."

Darkly, the knight looks away.

"It was me who proposed that we went to find Morgana, to finish her off." He laughs humorlessly. "As if she could be killed by mere mortal things such as swords. If we hadn't gone–"

"Percival," Merlin cuts firmly. "You couldn't have known. I don't blame you, and neither does Leon, or Gwen." He pauses, and makes sure that the knight is looking at him when he continues. "And I know Gwaine wouldn't blame you either. So you shouldn't blame yourself."

A single tear escapes Percival's eyes and he ducks his head to hide it.

"Thank you, Merlin," he mumbles.

Warmly, the warlock pats him on the back and turns to leave. Just as he is crossing the threshold, Percival stalls him.

"Merlin," his voice is steady once again. "Sometimes you are wise beyond your years, you know."

The raven-haired man grins at that.

"I have my moments."

* * *

“It won’t be possible to hide the truth for much longer, my Lady,” Gaius is warning softly. “You are almost reaching the fourth month mark, the signs should become evident at any moment.”

Sighing tiredly, Gwen nods. “I know, Gaius.”

“People may talk,” the physician continues cautiously, “perhaps it would be advisable to-”

“I _know_ , Gaius,” the queen snaps irritably.

Merlin follows this conversation at a distance, busy preparing a draught to help ease Gwen’s headache. The past few months – with the pregnancy and her sovereign duties and the plans to welcome magic users into the land again – have taken their toll on the young queen.

Quietly, he approaches and hands her the medicine, flashing her a warm smile.

“Thank you, Merlin,” she says in response, trying to smile back. Gwen drowns the remedy on one gulp, grimacing at the unpleasant taste.

There is an awkward pause, before Gaius stands up from his place besides the queen and walks towards the door.

“If you will excuse me, your highness,” he says formally as he goes, “I must see to my patients of this afternoon.” And with that, he departs.

As the door closes behind him, leaving Merlin and Gwen alone in the physician’s chambers, the queen’s shoulders fall.

“I don’t mean to be this– snappish,” she murmurs guiltily. “I know all of you are trying to help. But.” She seems at a loss for words. “It’s hard. Ruling a kingdom. Preparing to be a mother.”

She laughs humorlessly.

“I feel like I have no idea what I am doing half of the time,” Gwen admits. “I fear I’m making the wrong decisions. I fear I’ll be a terrible mother to this child.”

Shaking his head emphatically, Merlin kneels in front of her.

“Gwen, stop,” he says, taking her hands in his. “You are doing great. The court and the people love you. The crops are prospering. The criminality rate in the city is low. There is peace throughout the lands. The other kingdoms have already agreed to a meeting and the alliances you and Arthur had already established hold strong. Politically and economically, Camelot hasn’t seen better days since before either of us were born.”

The warlock makes sure Gwen is meeting his gaze when he continues.

“And you will be a wonderful mother. I’m sure of it.” He grins at her. “After all, you have plenty of experience, that with mothering me and the knights around.”

With an expression of mock indignation, Gwen slaps his hands away.

“I do not!” She retorts, a small smile growing in her lips, much to Merlin’s relief, who hated to see his friend so melancholic.

The warlock just laughs back.

Gwen’s expression suddenly changes, going from grudgingly amused to utterly surprised.

“Merlin,” she breathes, hands flying to her abdomen. For one terrible, heartstopping second the warlock fears she will say there is something wrong.

“I think I just felt the baby move.”

She smiles a dazzling smile, all the lines of grief and worry that accumulated around her eyes and mouth are suddenly gone, and she is a young and carefree girl once again.

The queen snatches Merlin’s hand and places it on her belly, over her elegant dress.

“Do you feel it?” She asks in an amazed whisper.

By the Gods, he does. The warlock feels so absolutely privileged and honored to have the opportunity to share this moment with Gwen, he knows there are tears pooling in his eyes, but he doesn’t even care.

“Gwen- Gwen,” his voice is heavy with emotion. “Can I?” He only looks at her, and he doesn’t know how, but she knows what he means instantly.

“Of course, Merlin.”

So he reaches towards her with his magic, hugging her with it, trying to touch the little thing pulsing with life just below their fingers.

When that small being seems not only to recognize his presence, but to nudge back instinctually, almost like in greeting, Merlin is from that moment on, completely smitten.

“Oh, Gwen. She’s beautiful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
> Merlin leaves the safety of Camelot to do what he never dared before: practice magic out in the open. Albion is full of surprises, and the young warlock might get more than he bargained for.


	2. From city to province

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin has left the comfort and safety of Camelot to do what he knows best: help others using his gifts. He will find out, however, that it's not only people who may need his aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very happy to present you with the second chapter! More action and magic in this one XD  
> Again, many thanks to [Amlia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amlia/pseuds/Amlia), my beta. (She is the reason there are no major plot holes in this fic. Though there might be some typos haha)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 

Merlin is there when the queen makes the announcement that she is expecting.

The citizens are summoned to the courtyard. Many people simply look curious, but most appear downright worried. They all grin and laugh with joy and relief when Gwen shares the good news. That evening, the people celebrate throughout the city, music can be heard well into the night. The following weeks – even as the days grow shorter and the nights colder with the approach of winter – the atmosphere in Camelot seems lighter, more hopeful than it has been since Arthur's death.

Merlin is not there when the queen makes the announcement about the continued progress towards leniency regarding magic due to an 'unknown' sorcerer's crucial role in defeating the Saxons and Morgana.

He knows what she will say, he helped write that speech himself.

'It has come to my attention,' Gwen will begin, calm and sure of herself, 'that magic was used to turn the tide of the Battle of Camlann and ensure our victory.'

And so it will go on.

The warlock, however, is by then far away from the city, journeying through smalls villages, disguising himself and doing magic – for the first time in his life out in the open for anyone to see. The sensation is exhilarating.

In one of the most memorable occasions, Merlin is passing by Monmouth, a settlement near the shores of the river that crosses the forest of Ascetir, when he decides to forgo making camp in the woods, as he normally would, and instead rents a bed at an inn by the edges of the village.

Wearing the face of a strongly built, blond haired and quite handsome man – who may or maynot bear a slight resemblance to Sir Percival – Merlin supps among the other patrons in the inn, huddled around the fireplace, trading stories and news.

"I swear to you," a broad bald man called Barnett is saying, gesticulating with his hands, one of which still holds a mug of ale, "my wife was there, visiting her sister in Rockfield. Saw it with her own eyes, she did!"

Another man snorts loudly. He is thin and tall, raven haired like Merlin, though is eyes are dark brown. He'd introduced himself as Elmer. "Barmy old woman, your wife must be," Elmer says disdainfully. "Have to be barmy to believe a sorcerer would do anything that wasn't in their own best interests."

Barnett takes a large swig of his mug. "I don't know nothing of the interests of sorcerers," he admits unconcerned, "but I know that before that old lady saw to the boy, the lad was a goner, and the day after he was running in the fields, like nothing had happened." The fat man nods to himself, looking into the flames. "If there ever was a good sorcerer, she was one."

"Pity they tried to have her burned afterwards, then," quips a young man, who'd barely reached maturity. The others laugh. All except from Barnett, who looks mildly affronted, and Merlin, who hides a grimace in his own mug of ale. Running away with your skirts on fire had _not_ been a nice experience. And though he does not regret saving young Darren from the head wound that was sure to take his life, Merlin thinks he can do without the resulting commotion and persecution.

"Only some did," the warlock mumbles to himself, his current deeper voice carrying his words despite the raucous of his companions.

"What did you say?" Asks one of them, Merlin hadn't caught his name.

Now all pairs of eyes are staring at the warlock, even the old barwoman behind the counter seems to be listening in. Merlin flushes slightly.

"I-I mean," he stutters, "I heard that only a few of the villagers tried to have the sorceress killed. Most wanted to leave her alone, and a few women even defended her against the assailants."

The sight of Darren's mother, still tearful, but unbelievably ferocious pointing a fish knife to a villager who demanded Merlin's head, shielding him, or rather, _her_ would always warm his heart.

The group is quiet for a moment, before Elmer snorts again. "Barmy, the lot of them."

A few of the men laugh, but most look thoughtful. The barwoman is glaring daggers at the back of Elmer's head.

Merlin opens his mouth to say something – he's not sure exactly _what_ yet – when a scream cuts through the quiet night. They all hold still for a moment, before rushing out of the inn, looking for the source of the panicked cries that seem to be spreading.

The moment Merlin steps out of the door, smoke fills his nostrils and makes his eyes water. Coughing, he covers his nose and mouth with his handkerchief – which never leaves him, no matter who he is disguising as – and runs towards the burning house just around the corner. The neighbors surround the hut, shock and horror and fear maring their faces. In the chaos, people are calling for help, for water, for someone to do something.

The wooden house burns like a furnace, and Merlin wonders what was stored inside to make the flames so vicious and alive.

"Was there anyone inside?" He shouts at a woman in her nightclothes, shaking besides him.

She shudders. "It's the smith's workshop," she says, without taking her eyes from the fire, "he lives there with his daughter."

At those words, Merlin pales. No cries come from within the house, if the occupants were there when the fire started, either they'd managed to escape already, or…

"I'm going in there," he says to no one in particular.

He runs towards the burning door. A few people shout at him to stop, the barwoman, who had followed her customers outside, even goes as far as grabbing Merlin's arm, but he easily shakes her off.

With a flash of his eyes, he bursts the door open and leaps inside. In the back of his mind he takes notice of the cries of surprise coming from outside that follow his actions, but he is more worried with locating the smith and the girl.

" _Acwence þa bælblyse_ ," he mutters behind his handkerchief, making the flames nearest to him momentarily subside. Despite this, the temperature is rising, and Merlin sees that the structure of the house is crumbling. He has but seconds. Desperations starts creeping in.

As he stumbles to the wall the farther from the windows, the warlock hears muffled crying. His eyes lock in a desk in flames. " _Færblæd wawe,_ " he says sharply, and wind blows strongly, dissipating the fire on and around the table. Underneath it, Merlin sees the crumpled form of a man.

With a wave of his hand, the warlock lifts the man into the air, where he remains motionless. There is too much smoke to see if the man is still alive.

Merlin kneels on the floor and reaches for the small girl curling on the floor, still crying.

"P-papa, p-papa," she is mumbling between coughs.

The warlock lifts her into his arms as if she weighs nothing and heads to the exit, her father trailing behind them, held up by the tendril of Merlin's magic not occupied with keeping them alive.

They are mere meters from the door when the roof creaks ominously and clabords start falling all around the trio, blocking the path to the outside. Smoke fills Merlin's lungs, he is becoming dizzy with the lack of air, his steps falter, his hold on the magic keeping the flames at bay slackens.

Losing hope, the warlock realizes he is running out of options, and turns to his lart resort: to try and transport himself and his charges outside of the house. He's never tried to do it with other people before, and has no idea the effect it may have on them, but it is certainly preferable than to die burning and choking.

He has just closed his eyes to concentrate, when he hears shouting coming from outside the house. He is hard pressed to believe his ears.

" _Ic hātte cweċeþ nú!_ " A woman orders, and the blackened wood blocking Merlin's way is thrown aside.

Without pausing to wonder at this unexpected turn of events, the warlock runs outside, to the blessed cold night air.

He drops to the floor unceremoniously when he is far enough from the danger, bringing the smith and his daughter with him, panting.

Through the ashes in his eyes, he looks at the barwoman just besides him, hands only now lowering.

"You!" He exclaims. Merlin doesn't know if in surprise, gratefulness or indignation.

"Me," the sorceress grimaces back, shooting an apprehensive look towards the villagers gathering around them, who have expressions of utter shock in their faces.

Barnett, the man from the tavern, gapes at her.

"Hertha..? You are… a sorceress?" He apparently can't believe what he just witnessed. "But we've known one another for years! How come I didn't know?"

She snorts. "Couldn't very well announce it to the four winds, now, could I?" The barwoman glares at him. "Or you think I wanted to be burnt at the stake for healing minor injuries and occasionally moving things without touching them?"

Merlin, privately, could definitely relate to that.

Then, Hertha turns her attention back at the man and girl lying unconscious on the floor.

" _Hæle þá bærnett_ ," she says loudly, apparently unconcerned with hiding her abilities now that half the village watched her perform magic. Her eyes glow brightly, and the burns along the smith's arms fade away.

Merlin, having recovered from the surprise of finding another sorcerer willing to risk exposure to help others, grins broadly at her.

"Thank you," he tells her in earnest.

The sorceress just shrugs, busy attending to the girl's wounds now.

Satisfied that Hertha seems to know what she's doing, Merlin redirects his attention to the still burning workshop.

Without muttering a single word, or pausing to look at the bystanders' reaction, the warlock calls upon the clouds and makes it rain torrentially on the flames, extinguishing them in minutes.

Possibly carried away with the rush of having saved two lives, and discovering a fellow magic user, Merlin completely forgoes caution and restraint. Playing with magic he had never dreamed of performing, he raises both hands towards the wet ruins and starts chanting.

" _Ic hātte þæt hús edstaðelung eftbétung_ ," he makes up the spell on the spot, knowing the second he finishes saying the words that it will work.

As his blue eyes turn gold, the ashes seem to evaporate from the debris, revitalizing the wood. The walls jump back into place, the door and windows following suit. The smell of smoke and destruction dissipates. The night is quiet and dark again, with only the torches along the other houses providing light. The smith's hut is whole and unscathed, as if nothing had transpired that evening.

Gasps of fright and wonder can be heard all around Merlin. The villagers seem to be divided between running away in fear because of all the magic used, and cheering the unexpected miracle despite the magic undeniably used – most tend towards the latter. The sorceress is looking at him with a mixture of admiration and disbelief is her expression.

"I had never heard of a spell that could do such things," she says, eyes wide.

"I don't think there had been one, before tonight," Merlin replies lightly, still drunk with magic, gazing at his work.

Hertha frowns at him, as if finally regarding him for the first time.

"Who are you?"

The warlock turns to consider her question carefully.

"You know what?" He tilts his head, as if trying to see something from a new angle. "I might really be Emrys."

* * *

 

A fortnight later, in a settlement miles away, well into what used to be Cenred's Kingdom and is now under Camelot's rule and protection (though King Lot would argue for his right over the region), Merlin hears news about the effects his actions are having at court.

"There is talk about a new law to allow the controlled usage of magic back in the lands," a merchant is saying to his colleague, as they arrange their stalls in the city market. "Heard from the man who makes the queen's gows himself."

"What?" The other man's tone is incredulous. "Queen Guinevere? Wife to late Arthur Pendragon? Son to late Uther Pendragon?"

"Just the very same," the first man replies, nodding.

The duo continue their discussion as Merlin moves on. Now as a young boy of no more than 12, he has to strain his neck to see the items on the tallest stalls. This is only the second time the warlock disguises as a child, and he is still undecided on the merits of such cover, as a large woman all but walks over him on the way to the fruits stand.

Merlin decides on an apple for breakfast and – as he has his cheeks pinched by the merchant woman ('such a sweet boy! You may have two for the price of one') – he thinks that Gwaine would approve of both the fruit and his hilarious disguise.

The young – truly young – warlock scurries away from the market, heading towards what passes as town square in the tiny village. Some kind of performance seems to be taking place there. Merlin hears clapping and whistling. Curious, he cuts through the gathering crowd to see what the fuss is about.

"Come closer, friends," a raspy male voice bellows. "And see for yourselves!" The man pauses dramatically, and Merlin catches a glimpse of him from his precarious position behind a couple holding hands. "From the darkest, most dangerous places in all the Five Kingdoms, we bring you the most exotic, horrific creatures you will ever have the pleasure of seeing!"

At the man's back, hang large curtains, supported by unsteady pillars. They appear to conceal whatever 'creatures' the presenter is extolling.

"Here!" Shouts the man. "I give you now a mere taste of what you are about to witness."

And at that, a pair of assistants hiding behind the curtains step out, carrying between them an enormous bird cage. With difficulty, they hold it high up in the air, for all the crowd to marvel at.

"This, my friends, is nothing less than a Firebird," he says magnanimously.

People are gasping and screaming, those on the front rows seem to take a few steps backwards, for suddenly Merlin feels compressed between bodies trying to move in conflicting directions.

The warlock is completely distracted from the discomfort, however, when his eyes set upon the creature crampledly stuck inside the metal bars.

A bird with the likes of which Merlin has never seen before stands, motionless, in the center of its – comparatively – small cage. It is the size of a large swan, though its neck is shorter, like a falcon's, and its tail is incredibly long, like the peacocks the warlock has only seen in pictures in library books. Its feathers are an impossible shade of scarlet, all except for those on its tail, which are bright gold. Its black, endless gaze locks with Merlin's, and the boy knows this is a creature of great power and ancient magic – those to rival a dragon's.

What makes the people tremble in apprehension, though, are the flames flickering throughout the bird's body, unbelievably hot, while apparently harmless to the creature, as it remains unburned.

How that weak excuse of a man had manage to hold such bird prisoner was a mystery to the warlock.

And as swiftly as the cage was carried out, it is carried back in, disappearing from view.

"Only one coin, one coin only to get access to this and many other remarkably rare beasts!" The presenter is shouting, gesticulating for the people to form a line to pay up. After handing in the coins, they are let through the curtains supposedly obscuring other caged animals.

Outraged at this appalling treatment of a magical creature (and animals in general!), Merlin ducks under the bodies excitedly moving forwards, and, with a muted incantation, turns invisible.

Unnoticed, he easily slips past the men spread around the spectacle, outwardly keeping a lookout to make sure no gatecrashers do as the warlock just did.

Inside, he is met with the terrible smell of dung, rotten food and death. About a dozen cages lie around, forming three rows. The biggest one is inhabited by what appears to be a horse, with a painted wooden cone glued to its forehead, in a pathetic imitation of a unicorn. It the smallest one lies a deformed rat sprouting two tails. In the others, there are a mixture of sadly malformed animals and clear fakes of magical creatures, such as a lizard with bird wings attached to it under the label of 'wyvern'.

The only true magical creature appears to be that scarlet bird, whose cage now sits on top of a pedestal placed just besides the 'unicorn'.

As Merlin approaches it, drawn by the magic he can clearly feel coming from it, both people and most animals seem oblivious to his presence. Not the bird. It follows his progress with appraisal in its eyes, apparently unaffected by the illusionment. Oddly, Merlin feels the sudden urge to prove himself to the creature, as if it was a particularly hard mentor to please.

When he finally stands before it, Merlin's diminuted height and the pedestal supporting the cage insure that their eyes are leveled. Blue and black clash, and the warlock reaches eagerly with his magic to meet the creature's.

Only to be blocked by something sharp, something so cold that it burns, something that makes his magic recoil in disgust and leaves a bitter taste under his tongue.

With his fingers now, Merlin touches the iron bars around the bird, then he reaches to the lock. It is an inconspicuous thing, but he can feel an evil presence in it, a magic so dark and corrupt the warlock can't stand to be in contact with it for long.

_Tóspringe_ , the warlock thinks, holding one hand towards the lock on the cage.

Nothing happens.

" _Min strengest miht hate þe tospringan!_ " He mutters out loud, to no effect.

Merlin realizes it will take more than his usual unlocking spells to break this lock. Slowing time all around him, so that his actions shall not be disturbed, he closes his eyes in the unnatural silence he created.

Concentrating with all his might, and calling upon the strongest raw, pure magic he's ever used, he starts chanting.

" _Ic hātte déorfald gánian, befrēo séo héahgesceaft se feðerberend!"_ He knows his eyes shine the brightest gold and his voice is raised, and he is glad everyone around them is frozen into place, unhearing, unseeing, uncaring.

Exhausted, Merlin sags where he stands, supporting his weight against the bars of the fake unicorn's cage. He lets his hold on time go, and barely holds on to his disguise and illusionment. Noise and movement erupt everywhere. It's rare from him to feel drained after performing magic and the sensation is something he hopes not to have to become used to. Expectant, he looks up to the bird.

And is sorely disappointed. The lock holds strong, the bars impenetrable. The warlock knows the creature behind them is bitterly resigned, even though all it does to express its emotions is blink at him, once.

"I'll find a way to free you, I swear," he vows, resolute. "I'll not abandon you."

The bird just looks at him for the longest time. Then, in the openest display of movement Merlin had witnessed from it, bows its head.

* * *

 

Under the cover of night – and back to his normal size and age – Merlin returns to the macabre exposition. The sky is cloudy, so the warlock conjures up a glowing orb of light to guide his steps. He had put that hateful man and his entourage into a deeper sleep, lest they suddenly wake up and thwart his plans.

It is true that the warlock had considered another course of action than to surreptitiously set free all the creatures imprisoned by the gang. In that plan, there were a number of explosions, panicked fleeing on the crow's part, and a victorious run for liberty on the animals' part. Also, there might or might not have been a heartfelt speech about respecting all forms of life in the world, on Merlin's part.

He discarded that particular idea, reminding himself of Gaius' parting words to him, and his advice of 'don't be an idiot, Merlin'.

Therefore, the warlock quietly slips behind the curtains and – glancing around to make sure there is no one there – mutters the classic " _tóspringe"_ under his breath, instantly opening up all cages.

Most animals, though awaked by his actions, don't seem in any particular rush to escape their prisons. All except for the double-tailed rat – which scurries away into the night – remain stubbornly inside their cages, as if the time in captivity had robbed them of their will to be free. Merlin's heart clenches a little at the thought.

Touching each animals mind with his own, the warlock gives a gentle nudge, a small push. Wouldn't it be better to try out your chances outside this dreadful place? Wouldn't it be better to have more space to move, to be able to choose one's own food, and not be stared at by inane humans?

Slowly, the most uncanny caravan of animals are marching towards the forest. Natural prey and predator walk side by side and the faster animals seem to measure their strides to match those of the slowest. Merlin grins broadly at the sight.

Then, he turns his attention to the remaining prisoner. With a flash of his eyes he makes the magical cage rise up in the air and follow him outside. The warlock heads to the woods. Although he would greatly appreciate watching the consequence of his actions, he has a precious charge to worry about, and cannot linger unnecessarily. By first light, they will be long gone, and the village will be left to wonder about the mysterious disappearances.

* * *

 

The 'firebird', as it turns out, is the quietest traveling companion Merlin has ever shared campfires with.

Forced to avoid human company – a necessary sacrifice, if one is carrying a clearly magical bird who more often than not bursts inexplicably into flames – the warlock keeps to the forests and swamps and grasslands.

He uses the time not looking for powerful unlocking sleeps in his magic book – one of the few possessions he had brought with him in this solitary mission – connecting with nature and its magic.

Merlin finds that once he stops and _listens_ the trees and plants appear to have a lot to say. They like to sing him songs of ancient times of magic and wonder, and the warlock finds he likes to brush his focused, willed magic against their tender, regnant, diffuse one.

He also discovers that animals, in turn, like to find him, apparently attracted by his magic. Quiet herds of deer surround him shyly, fluffy squirrels jump on his shoulders playfully, even wolves shake their tails at him when they meet.

A bit astonished at all this attention, Merlin wonders what Arthur would say if he saw his clumsy manservant now, drawing out all the prey that a hunter could possibly ask for.

The warlock laughs a little, remembering how he used to – unwillingly and willingly both – hinder Arthur's attempts at hunting. It's becoming easier to think about his king without feeling drown in bitter and anguished emotions.

The magical bird, though still helplessly stuck in its cage, seems to thrive on being around other creatures. It still won't utter a single sound, and it rarely responds to Merlin's attempts at interaction, but the bird seems to try and set itself on fire less often, and the warlock thinks he almost feels a sense of _hope_ coming from it.

The feeling increases tenfold the morning they are joined by a couple of unicorns – true, magical, pure unicorns – for breakfast.

Merlin has only waken up and is absentmindedly fixing himself some porridge, when he hears a twig break somewhere to his right.

As he has set up wards to warn him in case anyone intending them harm approaches their camp, he knows that either their visitor is harmless or that they are powerful enough to evade this enchantments.

When he turns, the warlock is faced with one starlight white full-grown unicorn, and a golden foal. Merlin is struck mute at the sight.

The firebird, meanwhile, chirps happily, even going as far as trying to flap its wings in their confined space.

The foal responds well to this, for it neighs in delight and comes nearer to the cage, curiously sniffing at it.

Though Merlin had met a unicorn a few years previously (in a hunt he'd rather not remember) he had never seen a foal. The golden shade surprises the warlock a little, as does the small unicorn's carefree temper, which certainly contrasts with its mother solemn air.

"Hello," he says with a formal head bow to the adult unicorn.

The unicorn returns his greeting with a slight tilt to its head.

The magical bird and the foal seem to be too busy playing among themselves to pay any attention to the other pair.

"Ah, children," Merlin jokes as he starts eating his food. He chooses to take the unicorn's unimpressed neigh as a sign of agreement.

The warlock is long finished, and has been amusedly watching the eager magical creatures interact, when another figure steps into his camp.

An old man, draped in hags and carrying an impressive staff surveys the scene seemingly content.

"Emrys," he greets.

"Anhora," the warlock responds, getting up. "It has been a while."

The mysterious keeper of unicorns gazes at him unnervingly. "I could not say. Time is but a relative construct," he says, much to Merlin's discomfort.

"It is true, though," he amends, "that much has changed from the time we last spoke." His eyes seem to be far away. "Then, you still hid from others and from yourself. Now, you are finally discovering who you truly are. Then, your prince was still alive, all but an untried foal himself. Now, he rests in Avalon, though his name is known and respected throughout Albion. Then, a magical creature had been killed by his actions – and your innaction. Now," he glances at the imprisoned bird, "you seek to free another magical creature from an equally terrible fate. Then," Anhora pauses and locks his eyes with Merlin's again, "the Pendragon line ended with the golden-haired prince. Now, a fair princess is heir to the throne."

The young warlock takes a second to process the cryptic words. Then, he sputters nonsensically at the unexpected news.

"So Gwen has– But. Wow." Merlin takes a deep breath. "I didn't realize I have been gone for so long," he whispers to himself.

"Time is–" Anhora starts.

"–but a relative construct, yeah, you said," the young warlock interrupts, distractedly. "How did you come about this news?" He asks curiously. "And why are you telling me this?"

The keeper of the unicorns stares impassively at him.

"Those of us tied to the land," he explains, "are always aware of the comings and goings of the foretold creatures into and off this plane. We knew when you were born, Emrys," the old warlock reveals, "and we knew when the Once and Future King perished."

Merlin nods, not quite in understanding, more like in resignation.

"As for the reason I come to bring you such tidings," Anhora continues, unconcerned, "it is simple. You have a choice to make. And wisely must you choose, for the wrong choices will yield grave consequences to all of Albion," he says enigmatically.

At that, the young warlock blanches. Always, _always,_ they tell him to choose. And time and time again he appears to choose wrong. What terrible effects will his actions bring now? He asks himself in silent despair.

Lost in thought, Merlin's gaze flutters to the unicorns and the bird. They are all staring back at him, gravity in their eyes. The warlock can't stand their gazes, and turns back to the old man.

Only to find him gone.

After a moment of astonishment and, mostly, indignation that Anhora is still able to completely slip past his detection, Merlin remembers something crucial.

"Wait!" He calls towards the shadows of trees. "You didn't tell me what my choices are!"

But even as the warlock says this, he knows it's futile. The keeper of the unicorns is long gone.

Dejectedly, Merlin sits down again. The small unicorn seems to realize his disquiet, for it approaches shyly and brushes its muzzle against the human's cheek, in a soft caress. This makes the warlock smile a little, and he pets the foal's golden crest.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

And then, just as swiftly as they had come, both unicorns depart, disappearing behind the tree line without a single sound.

Glancing towards his remaining companion, Merlin's smile turns wary.

"It seems it's just you and me again."

The bird is, once more, deadly silent.

* * *

 

Merlin travels have brought him closer to his hometown than he's been in years. Still, he skirted around it, taking refuge in other small villages instead.

Now, however, with such ominous foreknowledge, he cannot resist the temptation the comfort of hugging his mother represents, and sets course to Ealdor.

The warlock is eager to return to Camelot to meet Gwen and Arthur's daughter. He has not forgotten his promise to his current charge, however, and knows he cannot go back before discovering a way to free the magical bird.

Merlin can't help but wonder, despite himself, who the little princess will resemble most. In his dreams, he sees a golden-haired, blue-eyed sweet baby girl babbling incoherently at him, beaconing him to come closer. Whenever he is about to take her on his arms, though, he wakes up, a feeling of longing lingering on the back of his heart.

They reach the small village – located in what used to be the border of Cenred's kingdom with Camelot, and now is encompassed by the latter – just before sunrise.

The fields are empty and the streets silent. Merlin's illusionment spell is more of a precaution than a necessity, as he takes sure steps to the door of his mother's hut and knocks.

He hears movement inside. Someone approaching the locked door.

"Mother, it's me," the warlock whispers.

The woman who answers the door cannot possibly be his mother.

Her hair is streaked with grey, so much, that is hard to find any remains of her once sleek brown locks. Her eyes are tired and sunken on her skull, giving her a moribund appearance. Lines mar her face, making her look old and frail.

As his mother envelops him in a hug, Merlin can't help but notice how she seems to tremble in his arms. Tears pool in his eyes, and he desperately tries to blink them away.

"I should have come sooner," he mumbles against her hair, inhaling the familiar smell of safety and love.

"Merlin, my boy, my son," she says in his ear, and he can hear the smile on her lips. "It is so good to see you."

Years of having to care for a child who constantly defied the realms of impossibility made sure that Hunith barely batted an eyelash when Merlin slipped past her with a large cage and a burning bird tailing him.

"... would your friend like something to eat?" She asks, after a few seconds of marveling at the strange creature.

Merlin shrugs. "I've tried feeding it fruit, grain and meat. Doesn't take it. Seems to live on–well, magic alone."

Hunith nods in understanding, and places a bowl of porridge in his hands.

"Does he at least have a name?" She asks in curiosity.

The warlock opens his mouth but no sounds come out. How come in all the weeks they had been together Merlin hadn't thought to name it?

"Not yet," he admits, glancing at the bird, who is glaring at him. "I'll think of something good!" He promises hurriedly.

His mother seems amused by his antics. "Oh, my boy, you haven't changed at all," she says, smiling.

"Actually..." Merlin grimaces. _If only you knew, Mother._

They talk long into the day, having much catching up to do.

The warlock learns that the past winter had been hard on Ealdor, with many people getting sick, and a number of children and old people dying. His mother had been bedridden for weeks, and had barely escaped with her life.

"My old body isn't the same as it used to be," she admits, but shakes her head resolutely when Merlin mentions moving her to the city, to live with Gaius.

"You could help him attend patients and prepare remedies," he insists.

"My place is here, Merlin," is her response. "I have taken an apprentice of sorts – a girl to act as healer when I’m–,” her words falter almost imperceptibly, “when I can’t work anymore. But she still has much to learn. And as old and slow as I might be, people still come to me when the children get sick and the women are about to deliver. I can’t abandon them.”

The warlock wants to argue, but the recognizes the determined look on her eyes – he inherited it after all – and knows it’s a lost cause.

“I understand,” he says quietly, holding her hands. “And I’m impossibly proud of being your son, for that.”

Hunith laughs. "My boy, I'm the one who should be proud," she tells him, smiling. When she smiles, the years seem to lift from her shoulders, and she looks just as she did when Merlin was small enough to hide behind her skirts. "It is you who became advisor to kings and queens, who destroyed armies, saved lives, helped bring peace to the land." At his abashed flush, his mother ruffles his hair playfully.

They drink in each other's presence for a moment.

"Your father would be so proud of you," she says finally, eyes watering. "I wish he was here to see the amazing person you grew up to be. I wish we hadn't had to part with him as we did."

Merlin's throat closes at that. They rarely, if ever, discuss Balinor.

"There are no goodbyes," he repeats, "for he will always be." _As I will always be._

* * *

 

Merlin hadn't realized, but he'd grown weary of all his travels and disguises. He liked meeting new people and wearing different faces, he liked using his magic to do good. But he also missed being just Merlin.

So they stay with Hunith for a while.

And though the firebird sometimes seems a bit tired of being cooped in all the time – he isn't exactly easy to take together for a stroll in the fields –, he appears to put up with it, for his human friend's sake.

A couple of days after their arrival, an official messenger comes bearing reports from the city of Camelot.

It is late afternoon, and Merlin is tending to an injured horse – the only horse the village currently possesses – when he hears shouting coming from the main street. Worried that something may be amiss, he quickly finishes off with the animal and heads towards the commotion he can see in forming in the distance.

A man bearing Camelot's colors sits atop his horse as the crowd gathers around him. He holds a piece of parchment in his hands.

"I come here today to bring the village of Ealdor official news from the royal court of Camelot," he announces, quieting the whispering people. "Exactly one week ago," he continues, apparently reading from the parchment, "her majesty, Queen Guinevere, gave birth to Princess Ygraine, the second of her name, heir to the throne and daughter of late King Arthur Pendragon, who perished heroically at the Battle of Camlann, giving his life to save his people."

There are cries of joy at the news and people start conferring with each other excitedly. Ever since Arthur had come to Ealdor, against his own father's orders, to help protect the village, he had been well-loved by its people. The news of his death had saddened the community deeply.

"Moreover," the messenger interrupts the gossiping forcefully, "it is the queen's desire that all citizens of the great Kingdom of Camelot be informed of an important change in the laws concerning the practice of sorcery and all magical arts." At that, a hushed silence spreads through the crowd. Merlin feels a knot tighten in his stomach, and his fists close involuntary, trying to contain the sheer _hope_ growing inside him.

"As of yesterday," the messenger continues, ignoring the effect of his last words, "having magic is no longer considered an offense punishable automatically by death. All suspected sorcerers and sorceresses will have the right to a trial, and will be dealt punishment according to the severity of their crimes." Frowns adorn more than one face in the crowd at that, but no one seems prepared to argue.

The man's words become sharp. "No misdeed or act practiced in ill-faith will be tolerated. Should a sorcerer be proven to have used their abilities to cheat, harm, abuse, or otherwise wrong someone else willingly, such sorcerer will pay dearly." People nod approvingly at this, and the knight looks up from the written words and meets the eyes of the onlookers. "This is the queen's will. Her word is law. Long live the queen."

At that, shouts of 'long live the queen' echo in the small village. Some more enthusiastic than others, but none as passionate as Merlin's.

* * *

 

“I find the name Guinevere chose for the princess quite fitting,” Hunith is saying over supper that evening, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Ygraine...,” she mutters to herself. “We are turning full circle now.”

Merlin nods along, mouth full of stew, a smile still on his slips. He hasn’t been able to stop grinning since that afternoon.

"And even if the ban on magic hasn't been lifted yet, Hunith says, "the queen is clearly working up towards it."

“It’s so...odd how things are,” his mother continues, mind far away, “Arthur’s birth was followed by so much fear and spilt blood, and now his daughter’s is accompanied by such hope for the magical folk.”

Hunith smiles proudly at him. “And it’s all thanks to you, Merlin.”

The warlock chokes a little on his food. "Well," he says when he has recuperated, an embarrassed smile on his face, "all those prophecies and cryptic words about 'young warlocks' and 'two sides of the same coin' and 'bring magic back to Albion' couldn't be all bollocks, right?" He jokes.

"Language!" His mother admonishes, hitting him with a wooden spoon, but Merlin notices the smile hasn't left her lips.

* * *

 

When Merlin can no longer approach the firebird without being severly glared at, the warlock accepts it's time to leave.

"Alright, alright," he says, one night, after Hunith has already gone to bed. "I'll tell Mum tomorrow, and we can leave the day after."

At the bird's unimpressed stare, the young man admits defeat. "Tomorrow night, then," he compromises, to the creature apparent satisfaction. "Damn, you are hard to bargain with," Merlin comments, hand flying through his hair. The bird looks proud of itself.

"But honestly," he continues in whispers, preparing for bed, "I don't know what you expect will happen when we leave. I've been trying different spells to free you for ages, and nothing seems to work," he says, frustrated. "I haven't found anything in my books, either," Merlin adds, as if expecting the bird to argue that he hasn't done all he can. "And I go through them every night, in case there is something I missed."

The bird inclines its head milimetrically.

Merlin snorts. "I hope you are right."

* * *

 

As it turns out, they don't get to wait till nightfall.

It is early, and Merlin is working up his courage to inform his mother of their plans, when terrified screams pierce the tranquil morning.

The warlock tries to tell Hunit to _stay inside_ , but she is out of the door before he has the chance to open his mouth. He takes half a second to gape after her, before following at her heels.

"Dragons! Dragons!" Panicked voices shout, pointing at the sky in at least six different directions.

_Dragons..?_

Merlin casts his magical awareness _around_ and _up_ and discovers the people are not exactly wrong.

About half a dozen wyverns seem to be converging right above the village. Their screeches are unmistakable, as are they bright red eyes and black scales, which seem to reflect the sunlight.

As one, they turn in the air, and head towards the ground, right where Merlin, Hunith and a number of other villagers stand. People scream and run for cover. The warlock shoves his mother aside, and a man nearby pulls her to safety.

"Merlin!" Hunith cries, trying to fight off the man holding on to her.

But soon the warlock loses sight of his mother, for six snarling wyverns surround him. In the distance, Merlin hears people gasping, but he focuses on summoning his Dragonlord abilities, the only thing he knows might give him a chance to dispel the aggressive creatures.

" ** _Aposýromai,_** " he orders in the guttural sounds of dragon speech. " ** _Den tha vlápsete eména í dikó mou._** "

For a moment, it looks like it didn't work, and the creatures are about to bounce on him, then, their posture changes. Reluctantly, forced by the magic binding them, the wyverns bow their heads and shrink into the ground.

The whole village is quiet again, those who have not long fled stand in stunned silence, staring incomprehensibly at the Dragonlord. Risking a glance to his mother, Merlin sees that she is looking right back at him. Hunith nods minutely.

Turning his attention back to the creatures at his command, the warlock cocks his head, wondering what on earth would a band of wyverns be doing so far away from their habitat, and attacking a poor village at that, with no great number of farm animals for them to feed on.

Concentrating on the faint connecting he can between his magic and the wyverns', Merlin casts his consciousness in direct, probing questions. _What are you doing here? What do you want?_

A few of the wyverns screech, revolted at the contact, and though they do not move from their positions, the villagers around jump back in fright.

The Dragonlord ignores all this, and probes further, changing tactics. _Who sent you here?_

More horrible, deafening screeches, but this time, accompanied by the diffuse image of a large, white, fire breathing creature.

"Aithusa?" Merlin mutters to himself, baffled.

No sooner has he said the name, the white dragon herself roars in the sky, cutting through clouds, flying faster than an arrow. She is bigger than the last time Merlin saw her, still small compared to the Great Dragon, but at least thrice the size of an adult wyvern. Aithusa is different in more ways than just her larger size, the Dragonlord realizes, as he allows his magic connect with hers. She seems healthier, more lucid and less vicious.

Slowly, the white dragon descends from the sky to land among the party of wyverns.

The latter, curiously, seem quite excited at her appearance, and flap their wings enthusiastically, as if welcoming a well-missed older sister home.

"Aithusa," Merlin greets somberly. He has not forgotten their last encounters, and he doubts that she has, either.

_Emrys_ , she replies in his mind, with a nod of her head.

They stare at each other for a moment, assessingly.

"You've grown," the warlock finally offers – tone polite, if decidedly cool.

To his surprise, the dragon snorts, bemused. _And you have not_ , she replies mockingly.

"...and you've found yourself some new friends," he adds, indicating the wyverns, as if he had not heard her.

With an impatient snap of her tail, Aithusa sends _I'm not here to trade human pleasantries, Emrys. Our time is limited, we must depart at once._

Completely nonplussed, Merlin stares at her incredulously.

"To where, exactly?" He finally sets on asking.

An image of Kilgharrah's frail, decaying form rises in her mind. _He is dying,_ she states unnecessarily.

Grimmly, the Dragonlord nods. With a flash of his eyes, he has all his belongings packed and flying – through the window of his mother's hut towards his outstretched hand. With another, the firebird's cage follows suit.

"Mother," he calls at the same time he turns, looking for her. Their eyes meet over the wings of a wyvern. With a though, Merlin makes the creature step aside to let him pass.

Hunith hugs him fiercely, fingers clutching at his back. He kisses her cheek softly, hands tenderly holding hers.

"I must go," he tells her.

His mother laughs faintly.

"I know." Her blue eyes brim with unshed tears. "That was the exact same thing your father told me before he left, too."

Robbed of words, Merlin simply nods at her, before turning around to climb onto Aithusa's back.

Without waiting to check if he is properly secured, the white dragon leaps into the air. Besides them, the Dragonlord can see the other creatures taking flight too. One of them carries the birdcage in its claws.

With Aithusa leading the group, they head north. Ealdor grows so small so quickly that in a matter of seconds Merlin can no longer distinguish Hunith's graying head among the crowd of cheering, pointing people.

It is with sudden clarity that the warlock realizes he had forgotten to tell his mother how much he loves her. He wants to order Aithusa to turn back, but just as he opens his mouth to speak, the image of Kilgharrah flashes in his mind, and he quietens.

_She already knows_ , he tries to tell himself.

It is with cold dread in his chest that Merlin remembers Anhora's parting words to him.

Had this been the choice he had to make? Had he chosen right?

* * *

 

Merlin doesn't know how far they travel, but it is far enough to turn his muscles stiff and his members bitterly cold. The sun is low in the skyline, and the moon can already be glimpsed. The warlock is relieved when it seems they are losing altitude and the mountains are growing larger and larger in the distance.

Before long, he can see the hill-sized shape of Kilgharrah. It rests near the edge of a cliff, facing one of the most breathtaking sights he has even seen. Dark mountains are silhouetted against a starry sky, which hovers in indecision between the warm colors of a sunset and the cold ones of twilight.

When they finally land, Merlin flashes his eyes to ease the worst effects of the journey and slides off Aithusa's back swiftly. Behind them, a wyvern is dropping off the firebird. Afterwards, it takes off once again, disappearing from view along with its companions.

Together, Dragonlord and dragon approach the figure lying asleep before them.

Kilgharrah's breathing is more labored than it had been the last time they'd spoken. More scales are missing – so many that it is hard to find any part of his torso that doesn't have sickly grayish skin exposed. His once glorious wings are battered and tattered, with large chunks falling off. He smells of death.

When he opens his eyes at Aithusa's gentle nudge, though, his pupils are still the endless, powerful gold Merlin has always found both awe-inspiring and intimidating.

"Hatchling," he mumbles, blinking at her. Despite snorting indignantly, the smaller dragon affectionately rubs her snout against his. Then, with no warning, she jumps into the air and flies away, leaving Merlin alone with the Great Dragon – alone except, of course, for the firebird silently watching from where the wyvern had left it.

Kilgharrah, then, barely raising his head, turns his gaze to the Dragonlord.

"Young warlock," he rasps with difficulty. "It is good to see you this one last time."

"My old, dear friend," the Dragonlord returns, words half choked. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Nay," the dragon shakes his enormous head. "It is as I told you, I'm not long for this world. And not even you, with all your power, can conquer the inevitability of death, as you have been taught time and time again."

Merlin lowers his gaze, unable to meet Kilgharrah's. He is ashamed to realize warm tears are running down his cheeks.

"You honor me," he dragon unexpectedly says, making the warlock look up, "with your pain and your grief. Never in all my long years could I have imagined that one day I would be so deeply mourned by the most powerful Dragonlord to ever walk upon this earth." He pauses, and the warlock fights to find his words. "However," Kilgharrah continues as Merlin is about to interrupt, "what truly moves me is the realization of how much I'll be missed as a friend to the kindest, most compassionate soul I have ever had the fortune to cross paths with."

The Dragonlord finds it almost impossible not to break down at that.

Keeping a tight grip on his feelings, Merlin tries to smile. "We did not see eye to eye in the beginning, though," he jokes weakly.

The Great Dragon smirks, his sharp teeth showing. "That we did not," he confirms. "Such an idiotic boy you were back then," he rasps, not unkindly.

Merlin chuckles. "Gaius would argue that I'm still an idiot," he confides. "And you are still the same cryptic old dragon."

Said dragon lets out a rumbling laugh, and the atmosphere is light for a moment.

When Kilgharrah speaks again sobriety is back in his voice. "It was due to your mercy, your unique ability to forgive and your willingness to see the best in others," he reveals, "that I managed to find the same in myself, and let go of my thirst for vengeance and my bitter feelings. For that, I thank you." He bows his head. "And I urge you, Merlin," the old dragon proceeds, "never to allow your heart to change."

The familiar words make Merlin's heart stutter in his chest, and for a second Kilgharrah's golden eyes look as blue as Arthur's had been that fateful day at the margins of Avalon.

"I won't," the warlock repeats his promise in a hoarse voice.

"Good," is the quiet response. "Now," the dragon begins more strongly, slowing getting to his feet, "before what remains of my strength abandons me, I believe you have one last request to make of me."

Merlin is puzzled at that.

"I have nothing to ask of you," he tells his kin emphatically, "you have given me enough throughout the years we've known each other. Your wisdom and knowledge – which I more often than not disregarded unthinkingly –, your patience and support – without which I would have long since given up hope – and your faith and friendship – which shall help me endure the long years to come. I couldn't possibly ask for more, Kilgharrah."

The dragon's lips curve in a smile. "Kind words," he acknowledges. "But still, I'm freely offering one last favour."

Merlin is about to insist that there is nothing he needs, when he hears a low chirp coming from behind him. The warlock turn to see the still unnamed firebird staring expectantly at the pair of them.

"Oh," gasps the Dragonlord.

"Indeed," rumbles the dragon.

With a flick of his hand, Merlin brings the cage closer.

"I had never heard about a bird like this," the warlock comments. "There is no mention of it in Gaius' books about magical creatures."

"There wouldn't be," Kilgharrah lazily replies. "Phoenixes are shy, private creatures. It is almost impossible to find them, if they do not choose to be found. And powerful they are too," he adds haltingly, "their abilities rival a dragon's, though we are quite different in nature."

Merlin frowns. "If they are so powerful," he begins hesitantly, "how come this one was captured?"

The bird bristles indignantly at that.

"You will remember," the dragon replies patiently, "that even the most accomplished of dragons were either killed or imprisoned by Uther during the Purge." The Dragonlord flushes at the reminder. "No creature is without weaknesses, young warlock," he explains.

Catching on quickly, Merlin nods. "The Dragonlords were the dragons' weakness. And the phoenixes'...?" He asks, glancing between the winged creatures.

"Interestingly, a phoenix's greatest weakness, is also its greatest asset," Kilgharrah says mysteriously.

At the unhelpfully cryptic response, the warlock raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"A phoenix can live for centuries, even millennia," the dragon continues, "for when they are deadly hurt, or their bodies frail with old age, they burn away their mortal forms, and are reborn from the very same ashes. However," his tone is forbidding, "at that precise moment, they are as vulnerable as any nestling. This one" he indicates the caged phoenix, "was probably unfortunate enough to be cowardly caught in such moment."

Merlin gawks at the bird.

"So that's why you keep trying to set yourself on fire!" He exclaims, the strange behavior suddenly making much more sense. "Why isn't it working, though?" But even as he asks, the Dragonlord has already found the answer. "There is something dark in the metal of this cage interfering with your magic, isn't there?"

The phoenix nods gravily.

The warlock turns to the dragon. "I have tried all sorts of spells to break the bars and unlock the lock, but nothing works." Merlin eyes him hopefully. "Do you know of a magic strong enough to destroy the cage?"

Kilgharrah shakes his head, somberly. "This metal in impervious to the strongest kinds of magic. I do not know if it is possible to even damage it."

"So there is no hope?" the Dragonlord asks angrily. "The phoenix is to live the rest of its days in captivity?"

"I did not say that," replies the dragon, imperturbable, and says nothing else.

Frustratedly, Merlin runs his fingers through his hair. As much as he will miss Kilgharrah's guidance and advice, he will be hard pressed to truly miss his circular riddles.

At last, the dragon takes pity on him. "The fire of the dragons and the fire of the phoenixes is not dissimilar," he offers.

The warlock wants to smack himself on the forehead. _Of course._

"Are you sure you are strong enough for this?" He asks, cautiously. It has not escaped his notice how the Great Dragon is fighting to simply remain upright.

The dragon nods serenely, and Merlin takes a few steps from the phoenix, who is now intently gazing into Kilgharrah's eyes. Midnight black and pure gold meet, and an understanding passes between them. The warlock's eyes flash gold, and he lifts cage up into the air, until it is at eye-level with the dragon.

"Thank you for everything, my kin," the Dragonlord bows his head deeply, calling the attention back to himself.

"It has been a great honor, Emrys," the dragon repeats, regarding him warmly.

Then, the Great Dragon draws breath and, a second later, hot flames involve the metal cage and the magical bird inside, obscuring them from view.

Merlin doesn't know how long Kilgharrah breathes fire, but it is long enough to make him have to protect his eyes with his forearm, so blindingly bright are the flames. When he is done, and the warlock can look again, he opens his eyes just in time to watch the gold in the dragon's pupils grow fainter and fainter, until all that is left is a dull gray. His body slackens, and he starts to fall, but before he hits the ground, his enormous form dissolves into a thousand of golden dragonflies, that fly away into the night.

The Dragonlord releases the magic holding the cage. On the ground, he sees that it remains intact, but empty. Around it, ashes pile up abundantly. As he approaches the area, Merlin notices something is moving among the embers. Lowering himself, he touches the form carefully, and reveals a tiny, featherless chick blinking up happily at him.

He scoops the phoenix onto his palm and rises slowly, admiring the product of miracle he just witnessed. No, no miracle, just magic and selflessness _,_ he reminds himself.

As Merlin tenderly runs his thumb against the small creature's head and back, he grins at the idea that comes to him.

"I think I just might have found a name worth of you..." he whispers to the bird, tone conspiratorial.

"...Kilgharrah."

* * *

 

A few minutes after the phoenix is reborn, Aithusa and her wyverns return to the cliff. Merlin senses she is affected by Kilgharrah's death, though she doesn't demonstrate her grief.

Businesslike, the white dragon asks if he would like to be returned south, or if he'd rather freeze to death in the mountains. Quietly, Dragonlord accepts her offer. Grumbling, Aithusa lowers herself so he can mount.

"Wait," Merlin asks suddenly. The dragon stills, but doesn't look back at him. "It is a terrible burden," he murmurs softly, "to be the last of your kind. To be alone in the world, surrounded by others who, try as they might," he lets his gaze wonder to the wyverns screeching behind the clouds above, "will never truly understand you."

_You would know, wouldn't you?_ She snaps back viciously.

The warlock merely nods. "I would. I do," he says simply. The dragon snorts.

"I was the one who brought you into this convoluted world. But," Merlin continues undeterred, when it seems Aithusa will interrupt him, "I did not care for you, I did not understand you. Not like Morgana did."

At the name, the white dragon becomes completely still.

"I understand why you aided her," the warlock admits, "I understand why you stood by her side. She was lost and afraid. She had no one. It was in your power to help her, so you did." Merlin smiles. "Everyday, I wish I had done the same," he confesses, much to Aithusa's surprise. "But alas, I made my choices and I have to live with them."

Calmly, the last Dragonlord moves to stand before the last dragon.

"I cannot change the past," he declares, "but I would make a different future. And I'd be honored to be able to call you friend in such future," he offers humbly.

Cool, light blue eyes stare back at him, unblinkingly.

_There may yet be hope for you_ , Aithusa decides after much consideration, _Merlin._ Then she huffes impatiently. _Are you coming, or would you prefer to ride on a wyvern?_

The Dragonlord chuckles. Then, a cheerful chirping sound turns his attention to the phoenix on his shoulder.

"Let us go home, Kilgharrah," he tells the bird. "It is well past the time I pay another newborn a visit."

Merlin holds on to the baby phoenix and mounts the white dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:  
> Merlin goes back home to meet a very especial person. The kingdom is peaceful, but the warlock knows peace never lasts for long.


End file.
